


Five Times Johnny Never Heard What Morrissey Said (And One Time He Did)

by shrink



Category: The Smiths
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 10:46:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8010652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrink/pseuds/shrink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morrissey is unlovable but Johnny isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Johnny Never Heard What Morrissey Said (And One Time He Did)

**Author's Note:**

> This is an older fic that I've spruced up on its move over from Livejournal.

The first time Morrissey says it, it surprises him. Anyone armed with an anthology of Wilde and the memorized back-catalog of Nico, should be able to express emotion with more range. Luckily Johnny is passed out on his bed, his leather bomber jacket stuffed under his head, so he suffers none of the embarrassment of this perceived lapse in articulation. Johnny’s fingers are still gripping the chewed up pen he’d been using to amend pauses in chords where Morrissey's syllables needed the most emphasis. Blue eyes blink the image away, before the singer slides off the bed to heat up a cup of Darjeeling, needing to jolt himself out of whatever girlish B movie script was holding his tongue hostage.

The second time Morrissey says it, it’s into the crisp air coming through the hotel window. Cigarette smoke from the room next door curls its way into his breaths, and something tightens in his chest. He can make out the fumbling chords over the movie he's put in. Tom Courtenay's voice grimly announces through the TV speakers; _“Today's a day of big decisions - going to start writing me novel - 2,000 words every day, going to start getting up in the morning.”_ Morrissey looks down at his thumbnail, shuts the window, and returns to his place on the sofa.

The third time Morrissey says it, it comes out in a thankless whisper that even his cat doesn’t notice. Johnny is in his kitchen, his head in the fridge, shuffling through spoiled yogurt and orange juice with a huff, before asking for a phone book. Morrissey’s head is on the carpet, and Tibby’s eyes are partially open. Johnny’s fingers are curled around the receiver in another minute, ordering two cartons of vegetable lo mein. The guitarist grabs his keys and leans down to squeeze the other man’s shoulder before pulling his sunglasses over his eyes. Morrissey thumbs at Tibby’s ear and assures himself that he doesn't feel a thing as he waits for him to come back.

The fourth time Morrissey says it, he’s backstage staring upwards at the bottom of a bottle of Merlot. Morrissey laughs to himself at the drama of the phrase before bringing the back of his hand over his mouth. Johnny is already gone. To drink or put something up his nose. Something churns in Morrissey's stomach, and he frowns into the mirror when he notices his shirt is ripped. Some fan either wasn't fervent or strong enough to rip it off him entirely. The bottle slips from his grasp in exchange for the polyester material of ruined blouse. If he weren’t drunk and warmed by the alcohol, he’d want to know where his cardigan is.

The fifth time Morrissey says it, he blames the rain beating against his shoulders, and the way Johnny’s engine revs as he pulls out in front of traffic to get away. Morrissey turns back to the studio. The acidic smell of rain on cement crushes his senses and burns his eyes. Inside the studio, Johnny’s Rickenbacker is still lying across the chair behind the soundboard. There's no need to apologize when Johnny will return for the guitar.

The sixth time Morrissey says it, Johnny’s laugh is strained over the distance of the phone. Morrissey is laying on his back; his glasses are beside him, askew by his temple. There is another pause, which may have been a second or an hour where Morrissey can almost see the exhale of cigarette smoke, before the terse matter-of-fact reply travels a continent, “No you don’t.” Morrissey’s fingers are grasping hard around the receiver, and he, never being the persuasive, charismatic one, knows it doesn’t matter if this is or isn’t true.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story please consider [buying me more caffeine for my bloodstream.](https://ko-fi.com/A402111U)


End file.
